Every word is silvery and strange. I mouth
them aloud; breathe life into their bodies like
a god into clay; watch them shimmer and
shiver. Even without a comprehension
they dance into the ears. Put one with another
and hear the clash and mating. I voice a
sentence: let the magic show commence. The ones
that can’t be controlled are my favorites: the
slippage; the stumblebum; the seekers after;
the contorted syntax. A birthing into
something never heard before. Maker and
made. The sonic tumult and riot. Others
may prefer their inebriation from a bottle.
Give me syllabic shots, and I am lit.